


it's good to be me

by blueparacosm



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, has a lot of crushes on a lot of people, prime murphy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 12:07:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20209474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueparacosm/pseuds/blueparacosm
Summary: Daniel Lee is everything John Murphy isn't. It's nice to pretend for a while. But the cape has to come off, eventually.





	it's good to be me

**Author's Note:**

> tw for non-graphic mention of rape and abuse/child abuse

It was good to be Daniel Lee, prime.

Murphy bathed in a clawfoot tub, scrubbing the dried blood from between his thighs and the backs of his legs. A servant had left the small pedestal by the bath decorated with colorful bottles; something purple for cleaning his body, white for washing his hair, and cream for softening it, healing it. Murphy hadn’t known hair needed to be healed. That was the kind of thing Daniel Lee did, bathing in clawfoot tubs and caring about his hair.

The tub sat in the middle of the extravagantly large bathroom, underneath a chandelier with what could have been a hundred crystals dangling from it. The massive mirror on the wall was ringed by bright bulbs, and an arched window in the opposite wall looked out upon the red planet and its colorful homes dotting the land like holiday lights. The barrier shimmered past the berry fields, and Murphy thought briefly of Bellamy. Bellamy, who would’ve given him up for Clarke. Did give him up.

The laceration on his thigh was deep and narrow, and Murphy ran his finger along it beneath the water. Despite the bruising, crescent wounds in the back of his neck from an anxious Josephine’s fingernails, and the blood loss and exhaustion that had his head bobbing while he washed himself, he felt grateful for her. She could’ve killed him, and now he was a god in a palace, and smelled like lavender. No thanks to her really, but ultimately, she could've killed him.

Despite everything, he hoped Bellamy succeeded.

He drained the tub and toweled himself off, reapplied his bandages, and stilled when he caught his reflection in the giant mirror. It wasn’t often that he saw himself, and sometimes he forgot what he looked like. 

He was taller and broader than he remembered, and some of his odder features seemed more at home on his face with age. However the dark circles under his eyes and the wounds and scars scattered over his body suggested he’d been easier on the eyes, once upon a time.

He didn’t like looking at himself. Maybe it was better to forget.

He turned away and ran a hand over the dark dress shirt, vest, and jacket laid out for him. Pleated trousers sat folded in the chair the other clothes were draped over. A cobalt cape with an elaborate emblem on it hung from a hook on the bathroom door.

He guessed this was a thing that was happening, then.

“You look great,” said the servant who had left him all those bottles of _stuff, _sitting on the trunk at the end of Daniel’s massive canopy bed, after Murphy emerged from the bathroom dressed. She sounded surprised, and Murphy would’ve been too after the way he came in here, head-to-toe gunk and grime.

She was young and tan-skinned, with long, caramel hair that swayed at her waist. She wore a brown turtleneck and dark green trousers, and a small white apron at her hips that had that awful Sanctum emblem on it, too.

“Now what?” Murphy asked, and the servant rose to her feet, hands folded in front of her.

“Now we have to get you ready, your grace.” There was a tinge of annoyance in ‘your grace’ that Murphy supposed he deserved, as an imposter.

“But I already—“

“No,” she said, “Come here, please,” and led him to a vanity, built around a spotless oval mirror and filled to the brim with jars of glitter and tubes of… something.

Murphy was startled away from his investigation as a hot burst from a bulbous gun blew into his face and he grabbed the servant’s wrist, who startled too.

“What are you doing?” he snapped, eyes wide.

“I’m— I’m drying your hair, your grace?” she answered, eyes wider.

Murphy squinted, recognized the weapon as a hairdryer from the movies, and then grunted an affirmative as he released her wrist, hoping he hadn’t held it too tight.

She dried his hair for a few minutes, grazing her fingers along his scalp and fluffing his hair this way and that, and he hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes until she gave a little giggle. He raised a brow at her in the mirror, and her expression tightened, and Murphy thought he’d scared her.

“Sorry,” he murmured, trying to make his voice sound kinder than usual. He wasn’t some kind of tyrant. He wasn’t even a real prime. She shouldn’t have been scared of him. “Didn’t mean to doze off.”  


She smiled slightly, turning off the hairdryer and working at his hair with a comb, flattening it down toward his forehead. “Not used to pampering, your grace?”

Murphy scowled. “I’ll answer you if you stop calling me that and talk to me like a normal person.”

“Deal, Earth boy.”

He sighed, relieved, and propped his cheek on his hand. “No, not used to this. Couldn’t I just do it myself?”

She shook her head. “I could get in enough trouble for not bathing you.”

“You’re kidding me.”

She laughed. “Yeah, I am. But I don’t trust you to do this on your own and neither do the other primes. You have to look regal, don’t you?”

“I’m more than capable of combing my own hair and putting this—“ He popped open a tube of black gunk. “—Crap on my face.”

Satisfied with his hair, she pinned a necklace to it so the pendant dangled between his brows. “Well, it’s harder than it looks,” she replied, “And you don’t know how Daniel liked it. I do.”

“You were his…?”

“Keeper.” Her expression hardened. “We were friends, of sorts. He was kind.”

Murphy shifted, scratching at the taped stitches on the back of his neck. “I’m sorry.”

She examined his face in the mirror for a moment, and then huffed, uncapping a small black pencil and choosing not to respond. As she spun the stool around with her foot and brought the pencil to Murphy’s eye, he decided very quickly that he’d said the wrong thing. He’d look great with an eyepatch, but still, not the best case scenario.

“What the hell—“ he started, ducking away, and the keeper sighed.

“Eyeliner. It goes _around_ your eyes.” She waved a hand in a circle over her eyes, mocking.

Oh. His mom had worn that. He definitely wanted some, then, and flicked his hands up from the vanity in assent.

She held his chin with a touch so featherlight that it hardly counted as touching. He twitched and squinted and squirmed, and instead of grabbing him tighter and holding him still, she wiped his involuntarily tears away with a gentle thumb and dragged the pencil slower along his waterline. Murphy sucked it up quickly and held his eyes open wide, trying not to be difficult.

“It’s all smudged now,” the keeper sighed as she finished and pulled away to examine him. Murphy winced, trying to decide between feeling stupid or not caring. She spun him around again and shrugged. “But it looks kind of alright like that on you. Sultry.” She batted her eyes, and Murphy scoffed, admiring himself in the mirror as discreetly as he could. Instead of tired, he looked dark and mysterious and… well, sultry. The girl smiled knowingly as she rifled through one of the vanity drawers.

“One more thing,” she said, and took a brush to his face, framing his ear with her fingers to hold him steady, gentle. At the end of it, he had a swirl of black, shimmering paint dipping down from his hairline to curl under his eye, a familiar pattern. “Thought you might want to match your sister wife.”

“My what now?”

She smiled again, now in a way that made Murphy nervous. “Never mind. Put your shoes on.”

He did, feeling stupid in the shiny little shoes, and turned to stare at her from the doorway as he began to leave. She stood in Daniel’s room with her hands folded over her apron, looking proud of her work and mournful all at once. Murphy extended a hand.

“Name’s Murphy.”

She took his hand. “Sarielle.”

“Thanks for making me look less like shit, Sarielle.”

“Thanks for the challenge. Try not to die out there.”

Murphy grinned. “I always do.”

He closed the door and listened to a new sound, his cape dragging along the floor of the castle, and held his shoulders higher. His clothes weren’t torn and stained. His hair was soft. He smelled like lavender. He looked sultry.

It was good to be Daniel Lee; handsome.

Murphy’s heart broke a little more when he saw Bitch Lightbourne Senior wearing Abby Griffin’s body, decking it out in jewels and glitter and ornate fabrics like it was a room in a house and making Murphy feel wrong in his own skin. 

Abby wasn’t his mother, but she was the closest thing he’d had. 

Josephine was crying from Clarke’s eyes, and Murphy just couldn’t stand it.

“You killed her! All she did was _help_ and you killed her!”

She flinched, and kept crying. Murphy took a shuddering breath. He was done playing house. Emori gave him those hard, knowing eyes, proud and ready.  “We’re staying,” she said. 

“We’re gonna save our people,” he said.

Josephine sniffled. “I’m proud of you, Murphy.”

He’d succeeded after all, Bellamy. Murphy smiled as a tear dripped from his chin. “Just so you know, Josephine called me John.”

And Abby did too. 

He’d tear the primes apart, limb from limb, if they ever came back down from space. He’d never play the long game again. He’d save them all.

It was good to be Daniel Lee; brave.

Murphy hadn’t expected anything much from Bellamy in the tavern, what with being his sacrificial lamb only yesterday, but a tear would’ve been nice. Even Clarke had spared a few. But Bellamy wouldn’t even look at him.

Emori turned Bellamy’s head for him, and Murphy winked. There you go, bastard, he thought. In case you cared, deep down somewhere. (Murphy wished his lips wouldn’t turn up of their own accord the way they did for Bellamy. For everyone’s sake but especially Murphy’s, who wanted desperately to forget him altogether, let alone keep chasing after him.)

While he thought about Bellamy, watched Bellamy, imagined what he was going to say to Bellamy, Emori did all the talking and then they were moving, until Murphy was rocked by an unexpected embrace and the gagged and bound crowd turned into an unwilling audience. “Oh—“ he huffed.

“Thank the primes. I missed you,” whispered the personal space invader, and folded Murphy up in his arms like he might break into tiny pieces if squeezed too hard. Murphy hated to be touched, most times by most people in most places, but found himself stuck to the stranger like a magnet. 

Then the man swept in and kissed Murphy gently, slowly, and held his face like one holds a hummingbird between his palms. Like he was something precious. Something fragile. He held _Murphy_ like that.

Murphy, who could never get anywhere of his own accord; who needed to be grabbed and grappled and shoved in the right direction lest he never get there. Stupid boy.

Murphy, who could never adjust his attitude himself; who often needed a good, hard slap across the face to fix him. Belligerent boy.

Murphy, who could never get out of bed somedays; who needed to be yanked from under his blanket and dragged out into the open, force-fed the Tuesday meal, gagging on it. Indolent boy.

Murphy, who could never learn to mind his place; who needed to roll through the mud and swing from a tree. Proud boy.

Murphy, who could never shut his trap before something bad happened; who needed to take the punches until he’d bitten his tongue enough that he could just as well never speak again. Mouthy boy.

Murphy, who had been shoved, yanked, slapped, beaten, choked, cut, shot, stabbed, raped, burned, hanged.

Murphy, who had forgotten his body belonged to him. 

He kissed back, once, on accident, and curled his fists at his sides as a shudder sped beneath his broken, painted skin. The man smoothed his thumb over Murphy’s cheek and if he hadn’t been a powerful, confident, unshakable immortal god wearing a shit-ton of eyeliner, maybe he would have cried, then.

The man that kissed Murphy in the cult-tavern doorway was tall and blond with lips and a touch as soft as flower petals, and Murphy, well… Murphy was quick to forget that something was wrong with that. That it wasn’t his flower petal kiss to take. He tightened his lips and leaned away after a second too long for a room full of people, including Emori. Murphy flashed her a troubled look which she returned in full.

The man ran his palms down Murphy’s chest where his heart sat beating like water into a rain drum, and Murphy flicked his wide-eyed stare to every edge of the man’s face, committing his kind eyes and dimpled chin to memory. 

“That was… interesting," he said honestly. The man’s expression sank, confused and dejected, and Murphy scrambled without knowing why. “Perhaps another time.”

He avoided Emori’s look at that. It’s not like he was eager or anything. It was all part of the act, to be a loving husband and be loved in return, after all these years so alone or else treated to a sharp-edged touch, tinged with frustration but colored like it was passion.

The act wobbled a little on Murphy’s shoulders as he hiked them up to his burning ears and ducked out of the tavern, with very little glory nor grace to be found on him.

Outside, Murphy felt Bellamy’s stare burning a hole into the back of his head. Bellamy hated him. Bellamy hated him. Bellamy hated him.

“Who’s the hero now?” he joked, willing his voice to stay level. No one answered. Didn’t matter. He kept his chin up.

It was good to be Daniel Lee; loved.

In the tavern the second time around, while Murphy was pretending to be whacked out on the blood of Sanctum, fluttering his sultry eyes and all that, he was torn between meeting Gabriel’s excited stare or the soft, worried gaze of Daniel Lee’s husband.

The urge to fight and bleed never quieted, but the urge to be kissed and held like a porcelain doll was getting louder, since he’d tasted it. Murphy always fell fast and hard for anything that felt good. Addiction ran in the family.

Then Gabriel gave him the go-ahead, and Murphy didn’t have a choice between the two.

“I’m sorry about this,” he ground out as he wrapped his arms around the soft man’s throat. “You really do seem like a nice guy.”The man grappled uselessly at Murphy’s hands. “Good kisser, too,” he mused, and once the man’s hands fell away, Murphy dropped him to the floor and moved on.

The bigger guy he’d trapped against the stairs put up a real fight, turning his head forward again each time Murphy rocked his fist against his face. He punched, and punched, and punched. Bone cracked and skin split under his hand. It felt good, but it didn’t feel as good as it used to.

He stood over the man’s body, unconscious now, and breathed hard.

“Took your time,” Gabriel teased, offering a pilfered blade.

“My guy was tougher,” Murphy answered and took the knife, sawing away at Gabriel’s restraints, who smiled. Murphy liked Gabriel. He was kind, and funny. And tall.

“Careful,” he said, and Murphy swallowed, shaking the glaze from his eyes and looking back down at the fraying rope binding Gabriel’s wrists together, ensuring his newfound interest in the lips of men wouldn’t result in a fatal accident involving this big ass knife.

He was distracted today. He wasn’t sure how he’d fought and won, feeling like this. Like a dove. But he liked bossing people around, and he liked pretending to be weak and dazed and high knowing he was in control in the whole time, and he’d liked the way his forearms looked with his dark, crisp sleeves rolled up, as he beat someone’s face in for the good of society.

It was good to be Daniel Lee; useful.

The cape had to come off eventually. The pendant, the suit, the trousers, and the shiny little shoes.

Murphy liked it, sure, but it wasn’t him.

After all was said and done with the primes, his friends had taken the castle. Half were in the dining room concocting plans for some kind of speed-election in Sanctum, and the other half were hard at work on the ground, providing medical care for those injured in the battle and lighting pyres for the bodies in a mass funeral.

With the cape off, nobody really needed Murphy anymore, so he was holed up in Daniel Lee’s bedroom, sinking into what must've been a hundred pillows and nursing a glass of ale.

He’d looked in the drawers and massive closet for duller clothes (even if all the sparkling things still drew him in), but Daniel Lee was clearly a man of stubborn extravagance. His torn and bloodied clothes had been tossed out by Sarielle almost immediately upon reaching her nose. So Murphy sat on the bed by the window in his underwear, watching everyone work down below, wondering if he shouldn’t at least go help with the pyres. 

But he really just wanted to drink.

A knock came at the doors. “What,” Murphy murmured, and after a beat of silence he remembered that the bedroom was unnecessarily large and that the door was far away. _“What!”_ he shouted.

One of the double doors slid open slowly. “Hey, Murph.”

Murphy grinned to himself, first, and then clenched his jaw. He turned away from the window.

Bellamy had cleaned up and changed back into his usual clothes instead of that baggy wool coat he’d been wearing, the one that made him look soft and kind of old. He was standing in the doorway, gripping his own arm in the way he did when he was feeling awkward.

Murphy took a sip of his drink and raised a brow expectantly. Bellamy swallowed, and took a step inside the room. “I wanted to get your opinion on some of these plans —“

“Cut the crap,” Murphy interrupted. “Why are you really here?" He scooted to the end of the bed and turned to stare unseeing out of the window. "Gonna berate me for my terrible plan that _worked? _Knock yourself out."

Bellamy took another little step inside, and closed the door gently behind him. “Fine,” he said. “I wanted to— Could we talk?”

Murphy shifted, lowering his hackles slightly. “What’s there to talk about.” He felt Bellamy’s presence close by on the other side of the bed, again staring laser holes into Murphy’s head.

“I wanted to say thank you,” Bellamy said, “For saving us.”

Murphy scoffed. “I always did like pretending to be a hero, remember?”

“That’s not what I said.” A hand fell to Murphy’s shoulder, and Bellamy dug his fingers in the way he did, soothing, grounding. “You _are _a hero."

Murphy closed his eyes, shutting out the village in the big arching window and the big stupid room and the silky sheets and the hundred pillows and everything but Bellamy’s hand on his shoulder and those four stupid, stupid words.

“Well,” he managed to say, “I don’t think they’ll put me in any storybooks.”

Bellamy kneaded Murphy’s shoulder, once, and when he spoke Murphy knew he was smiling. “I’ll do it myself. I draw a mean stick figure.”

Murphy wanted to give him a laugh. He really did.

He turned on the bed and crossed his legs, facing Bellamy, whose eyes darted up and down Murphy’s body and then landed very firmly on his face. Very, very firmly.

Murphy pulled his knees to his chest. Choosing between fancy clothes or dirty ones suddenly seemed a lot less impossible. “Didn’t want to wear anymore of those stupid prime outfits,” he lied. Bellamy’s eyes did something strange then, a slow kind of half-blink. 

“I — we could find you some civilian clothes,” he said, and stepped closer. “But for the record, I thought you looked… nice. Handsome.”

Murphy unfurled slightly. “You did? I mean— obviously, stupid or not they’re nice clothes and his keeper picked them out, and I look great in black—”

Bellamy nodded. “I like the makeup, too,” he interrupted.

Murphy reached up and touched his face, felt the grittiness of the painted tattoo that he hadn’t taken off, became aware again of the heavy feeling around his eyes.

“Thanks,” he said quietly. “Sarielle did it.”

Bellamy reached out. “Can I…?” Murphy nodded, and Bellamy traced the tattoo with his thumb, slow. “Is it supposed to match Emori’s?” he asked. 

Murphy nodded again, looking up at Bellamy and feeling as if something very important and very valuable would shatter if he spoke, or moved, or breathed.

“What did she think of you kissing that guy last night?” Bellamy smirked like it was funny, but his eyes didn't seem to agree.

Murphy swallowed, thinking of the way the man held him, what he must have looked like, feeling his stomach sink. “He kissed _me,_ actually. Not that she would care either way. Emori asked us to get Raven in the mix one time.” Bellamy gave him a questioning look, and Murphy shrugged. "I'm not picky."

Bellamy scoffed, smiling, and brought up his left hand to adjust Murphy’s hair, somehow, somewhere, despite none of it being on Murphy’s face or in his eyes or anywhere requiring adjustment. He looked to be thinking hard about something.

Murphy was too. 

“Are we… okay?” he asked, glancing at the floor.

Bellamy paused in his ministrations. “I’d like it if we were.”

“And you aren’t just forgiving me because I saved you.”

“Forgiving—?” Bellamy started, bewildered. “I left you, Murphy. I was upset and I didn’t listen to you, I grabbed you, I yelled at you, and then I left you in that field. I’m the one that needs forgiveness.” And Murphy — well, Murphy didn’t know what to say to that. He’d never been on this side of the glass before.

“But I was gonna let her kill Clarke,” he argued, which wasn’t helpful. “And you’re just… over it?”

“You were doing what you thought was right. I’ve been there," Bellamy said, lowering his hands to frame Murphy's face, his fingers splitting around Murphy's ears just like the man in the tavern's had. "We're okay. More than okay." He paused. “I missed you."

Murphy felt his bones loosen, his teeth unclench, his everything relax. He didn't know how long he'd been coiled up, waiting for_ something_ to be right again. “Missed you too.”

They stayed that way in silence for a moment, with Bellamy lending his attention to further smudging Murphy’s eyeliner. 

“You’re ruining it.”

“I like it this way. Makes you look dramatic, like crying women in old movies.”

Murphy laughed, shaking his head and leaning back to place his drink on the windowsill, relinquishing it from his white-knuckle grip.

“Someone’s being awfully touchy.” (Gentle, Murphy thought. Someone's being gentle.)

Bellamy paused again, obviously off somewhere far away. “What did you think of it?” he asked suddenly, voice rough as rocks. “When that  guy— The way he…?”

Murphy quirked a brow as Bellamy circled back to this same line of questioning. After everything that had happened, Murphy getting a kiss didn't seem like the most interesting part of their week. “I don’t kiss and tell. Why do you care so much?”

“Just curious,” Bellamy said, and Murphy caught his eyes flicking down to Murphy’s lips. “You looked like… like it was good.”

So, this was definitely weird, Murphy decided.

“And I…” Bellamy started, half-lidded, staring down at Murphy who knew that was a sentence Bellamy would never finish, and decided to be brave.

“And you wanted to try?”

Bellamy, for all his closeness and touching and twenty-one questions, looked like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Murphy tucked his hands under his thighs, as they were shaking too hard to be free. “I’d say there’s enough of me to go around, but Echo might kick both our asses.”

“Echo doesn’t care. Wanted Raven in the mix too,” Bellamy answered, too quickly.

“Well, someone’s eager,” teased Murphy, "Been thinking about me?" and Bellamy _had_ to let him have that, the verbal upper hand, seeing as Murphy was sitting there in his underpants and ruined makeup with Bellamy looming over him. 

“I really did need your help on those plans, you know. You always have a unique perspective, and we have a lot to go over. Maybe we should just focus on that."

He was trying to make Murphy eat his words, look eager. Fine, Murphy thought, and shot up to kiss Bellamy hard.

Bellamy, who stopped him, slid his hands down to cup Murphy’s jaw just like the man in the tavern had. Bellamy, who leaned in close, whispered “Love you,” on Murphy’s lips, and kissed him like he was glass.

And Murphy’s shit-ton of eyeliner was already ruined, so he let the tears roll down, and Bellamy smiled at the feeling of them on his own cheeks, knowing he'd succeeded in giving Murphy what he hadn't known he wanted. Knowing that he'd finally figured him out.

“Don’t cry,” he said between kisses, “You’ll look like a mess.”

Murphy laughed as Bellamy pushed him down into the hundreds of pillows, knowing it was too late for him.

It was good to be John Murphy; handsome, brave, useful, loved, and more than a little bit of a mess.

**Author's Note:**

> just wanted to write a thing to celebrate gay prime murphy. i noticed a lot of people saying they liked murphy now that he was all dressed up and doing hot people things, and that annoyed me so i wrote a whole fic about it because fanfiction is about revenge. also inspired by everyone crying about that zurphy kiss and how sweet it was and how murphy totally fell for it
> 
> and then i added murphamy because i couldn't not
> 
> this was just a quick little thing so i'm sorry if it's not my best but i hope you liked it! <3
> 
> im @slugcities on twitter come see meninist bellarkes (?!?!) yell at me for calling murphy gay because that's what's popping rn


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